


he hollowed out their bodies so they'd feel just empty as him

by Anonymous



Series: dog teeth [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Bad stuff is in the past but it's definitely still kicking around in tommy's head and in this fic, Brief Discussions of Self Harm and Suicide, Canon Divergent, Coercion, Flashbacks, Gaslighting, Ghostbur makes an appearance, Grooming, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Abuse, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Explicit Depictions of Sexual Abuse, Non-Linear Memories, PTSD, Physical Abuse, Post Tommy Exile Arc, Sexual Abuse, So does Phil, Suicidal Ideation, Tommy Actually gets a Healthy Friendship with an Adult as a Treat, Trauma, Underage Drinking, alcohol use, brief thoughts of self harm, depictions of violence, suicidal ideations, thoughts of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28794054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: In which, Tommy (illegally) visits L'Manberg, gets drunk under Technoblade's house, and the two finally have a conversation.
Series: dog teeth [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069550
Comments: 21
Kudos: 373





	he hollowed out their bodies so they'd feel just empty as him

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Nicole Dollanganger's song 'Dog Teeth'
> 
> Please take a moment to read [part 1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28237152) and [part 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28251342) for this to make more sense. 
> 
> ((All fictional. Based on the characters, not the creators. Not a reflection of reality. You know the drill.)) 
> 
> This story is intended for a mature audience as a result of the themes depicted within. However it is only rated Mature due to the fact nothing is ever super explicitly drawn out or depicted, but if necessary I will bump it up to Explicit to make it clear that younger audiences should not interact.  
> As a note; this fic is not meant to romanticize or sexualize the topics within.

Sleep offered no favors that night. Maybe it was the fact Dream had been merely breaths away from him, the way the lid of the box had inched up enough that he saw the hint of nails and fingers, wrapped in scars and calloused, with gloves that chopped off at the knuckle. And all he could think about was his hands, like he had seen the cat's paw at the edge of his burrow, inches from reaching in had he not held his breath hard enough. 

Maybe it was the fact his dreams (oh, so coincidentally) supplied him with a rota of alternatives to mull over. 

One where he managed to dispel his meager breakfast into his hands and Dream found him, hoisted him free and hauled him through the snow kicking and flailing. Another where Dream had lifted the lid, peered into the box, glanced back over to Technoblade and nodded, before dragging him up by the arm until it felt like his shoulder might wrench from its socket. And one where Dream found him again, scruffed him by the collar of his shirt like an unruly pup, tossed him onto the floor of the cabin, and methodically dissected his clothing while Technoblade just watched and--

He probably hated that one the most. 

And maybe there were days where he felt okay, days he didn't think about any of it. But, the day after Dream had decided to pay him and Technoblade a visit, he didn't leave the basement. He didn't rise to eat with the sun. He didn't do much besides lay there and stare at the cobbled wall of his little impromptu bedroom. Blanket wrapped around him, chilled stone under his side, bed left abandoned, the ungiving ground a constant reminder he was at least here and not anywhere else.

He stared and stared and didn't so much as move or twitch or indicate he was living, even when Technoblade wandered down the ladder and asked if he was alive. The minute rise of his shoulders and side must have betrayed his status of _very much not dead_ , because he left soon after without another word.The stench of cooked eggs and roasted beef drifted down from the upper floors not long after. And he should have been starving. He should have been ravenous and hungry and all manners of eager to sink his teeth into anything called food. The space where his gut should be stood hollow instead. 

The clatter of a fork against ceramic, the click of hooves against wooden rungs, and the scrape of stone as something was sat down behind him didn't make him turn over. Technoblade didn't say anything as he left, the meal abandoned behind him. He should have said something, _thank you_ , anything, but he stared and stared and stared-- 

_  
Rain patters against the canvas of the tent, the dull pinging clatter of it swirling in his ears as it races down to pool in the grass and cascades over the entrance of the tent in the thin sheet of a scattered waterfall. He sits at the edge, where dry dirt becomes muddy earth, and holds his palm out for the water to collect in it. Tips his hand over when a shadow eats up what light filters through the storm and looks up to see Dream._

_'Uh, hey... since it's a rainy day, did you wanna try something cool?'_

_He muses the residual dew of the rain between his fingers, brow furrowed. 'Like what?'_

_Dream pulls a trident free from where it's slung across his back. 'Wanna see how high you can go?'_

_'Fuck yeah!' He scrambles to his feet, already reaching for it._

He remembered using the trident, the way it lifted him into the air, rain pelting his face, and he hadn't cared how high it carried him. The freedom and exhilaration and all of it made him forget everything else. Forget how weird Dream could be, the lingering touches that strayed for longer and longer, Dream staying later and later into the day until it was mostly night, sleeping on the floor beside his cot when he could easily just go home to wherever. All of it. Forgotten for the thrill of the fall, where a part of him hoped the ground would meet him. 

There had been good days there too.

Times where it was just him and Dream shooting the shit and having fun and he had genuinely enjoyed the man's company. And it had been a few days after the First Incident (as he had dubbed it in an attempt to cobble together some kind of coherent timeline in his head) when the Second Incident happened. It had started off as a good day, he remembered that much. 

It usually started off good. Minus Dream asking him to blow up his shit of course, but at some point that just became routine. Being able to hide some of his things helped with the sting the TNT brought with it. It didn't help with the sting of Dream breaking the promise he had made though. And it had started off as a good day, it really had started off as a good day and he--

_'I wanted to try something,' Dream says, lazily sprawled out on the cot, an ingot of iron, pressed into a golf-sized ball, occasionally tossed up and caught between his hands._

_He glances up from where he's sat beside him on the floor, his attempts to figure out how to draw a decent horse for the last thirty minutes maring the page of a notebook. Done more out of sheer fucking boredom than actually giving a shit if he could._

_'What?'_

_Dream sits up, pockets the little ball, and rests his elbow on his knee, chin cupped in his hand. 'It's a game.'_

_'I'm not a fucking kid.'_

_'It's a game for parties and shit dumb ass.'_

_He wrinkles his nose up at that. 'What like fucking spin the bottle or some shit?'_

_'No, no,' Dream laughs. 'It's truth or dare.'_

_'I dare you to fuck off.'_

_'Look, you're already an expert.'_

_'And you're a wanker,' he mumbles, turning back to the book in front of his crossed legs to continue his shitty attempts at art._

_'Shut up, Tommy. C'mon--' Dream grabs his wrist and, all too easily, drags him up to sit on the cot beside him. 'Just sit down for a sec.'_

_'Fine,' he grumbles, not so subtly snatching his hand back from Dream's grip. 'So, are you gonna start this little shit show or--?'_

_'Truth or dare?'_

_Tommy laughs and he hopes Dream can't tell it's uneasy. 'I don't know… truth?'_

_'Mm.' Dream tilts his head, taps the bottom of his mask. 'What's the farthest you've ever gotten with a girl?'_

_'Woah, pulling the big fucking guns at the gate! Jesus, man--' Tommy laughs and it's loud and obnoxious, but he kind of wants to curl up and hide his face._

_'You said truth.' Dream shrugs._

_'Fine, fine, uhh--' He stutters and stops and starts again. 'I fucking don't know. Like… I've held hands with a girl.' His face feels like it's hotter than any lava he's ever stared at. It's not like there's an abundance of women around here anyway. So, it's not really his fault._

_'Aw~' Dream pinches his cheek mockingly. 'That's so cute, wittle Tommy-wommy held a girl's hand.'_

_'Shut up asshole, whats the furthest you've gone with a fucking girl, bet it's just texting one you fucking basement dweller,' he snarls back, shoulders hiked up. 'I'm Dream and I've had at least a fifteen streak snap chat convo with a girl, I'm a total fucking chad, a god among men.'_

_'You can't see me roll my eyes, but I'm rolling my eyes.'_

_'Well then, answer the fucking question.'_

_'You didn't ask the question.'_

_'Fu--' He splutters. 'Fucking truth or dare, dickhead?'_

_'Mm. Dare.'_

_He nearly screeches. 'You can't just change lanes like that!'_

_'You asked, I answered, it's fair.'_

_He grumbles a string of curses to himself. 'Fine, I dare you to jump off a bridge, bitch.'_

_'That's not very sportsmanlike of you, Tommy.'_

_'You're not very sportsmanlike.'_

_'Very mature.'_

_'Fine, whatever fucking, uh, I-- I don't know, I dare you to fucking--'_

_'Fucking what?'_

_'Fuck--'_

_'Fuck?'_

_'No, bitch, shut up for a second. I'm trying to think.'_

_'Come on, there's so many things you could dare me to do. Just pick one. It could be anything.'_

_'Stop taunting me asshole, you're making this hard.'_

_'Fine. I'll let you off the hook this once. Truth.'_

_Tommy huffs. It feels like a cheap win. 'What do you actually look like under the mask?'_

_'You'll have to dare me to take it off.'_

_'Motherfu--'_

_'God, you're really bad at this game.' Dream laughs. 'Okay, okay, I'll take pity on you for being such an idiot.'_

_He takes off the mask and he looks… plain isn't the right word. But Tommy might lose his face in a crowd. The most notable aspect is his eyes, but that's about it. He's just a guy._

_'Why do you even wear that fucking thing?'_

_Dream shrugs, and it's weird to see all of his face play into the movement. 'Intimidation.'_

_'What's fucking intimidating about a dumb smiley face? You look like some looney tunes ass, happy meal toy little bitch in that mas--'_

_His back slams into the cot, sidebar digging into the meat of his shoulder, the sharp sting of steel rests across his throat as a hand pins him down by his sternum. Dream's mask is back on and he stares up at it. All too violently recalls that Dream is a killer, that he's ruthless and willing to slaughter and gut and blow up an entire nation as it tries to stand on its own two feet against him. Dream wasn't always his friend. Dream had shot an arrow into him and watched him gurgle in his own blood and bile and done nothing, and he could easily slit his throat here and--_

_The knife retreats from where it rested and Dream laughs as he slips the mask back off and helps him up. He laughs with him, but he wraps a hand around his own throat and hides it from the flash of steel as Dream slips the knife back into his belt._

_'See? Intimidation.' Dream smiles, like he hadn't just threatened his life and he tries to offer one back, but it falters and wobbles._

_'Wh-- whatever, dick…' He tries to hide the way his voice wavers and he thinks he ultimately fails. 'It's your turn.'_

_'Truth or dare?'_

_'Truth.'_

_And Dream keeps the mask off, and it's so weird. It's weird to see his brows raise, furrow, his face crack into a smile, eyes scrunch, lips purse or frown. Or the way his nose is maybe a little crooked, like it's been broken before, and there's a scar on the left side of his jaw and the faint impression of dark circles under his eyes. He looks human and vulnerable and it's-- It feels like he's earned his trust here. That Dream trusts him to see the man under the mask. And Tommy can't help but preen a bit under the privilege._

_They continue with truths back and forth. Tommy learns his favorite color and candy and other innocuous shit that he categorizes away under their friendship and he returns the favor. It's interesting to learn all the little facets of Dream, but it becomes boring after the seventh or eighth time either of them says 'Truth' and avoids saying the other._

_'Truth or dare?" Dream asks, and Tommy can tell he expects Tommy to just bitch out and say truth again._

_'Dare.'_

_It's late. It's dark out and he hadn't even noticed it. There's a single little lantern set up on the shitty nightstand he cobbled together and it only casts so much light. The low light doesn't stop him from noticing the way Dream blinks and stops though, eyes flicking to him where they had been roaming over the ceiling of the tent idly. The scrutiny of them sends Tommy fidgeting, leg bouncing and foot tapping against the ground as he waits._

_'So, are you gonna fucking ask me to do something or are you just going to sit there?'_

_Dream hums, head tilted, and it's odd to just see every emotion flicker across his face like that. 'I dare you to…'_

_'Spit it the fuck out, man!'_

_Dream smirks, leaning in close. 'I dare you to kiss me.'_

_Everything screeches to a halt. He promised. He promised. He promised--_

_'Wh--what?'_

_'Come on, it's just for the dare. Don't tell me you're chicken shit. You've already done it once. It's not hard.'_

_'B--' But why? Why again? Why is he-- Why--_

_'Actually, I double dog dare you. Unless you're just a baby. Is that why? Are you afraid of something as stupid as a kiss, Tommy? It's not like it means anything.'_

_'I'm--'_

_'I didn't peg you for such a sore loser. You're really gonna let this make you lose the game?'_

_'No!' He barks. 'I mean, fuck no, of course not, pfft, it's whatever-- I'm not bothered by it, are you bothered by it, bitch? I mean it's just-- it's just a kiss, yeah?' He laughs, high and loud and he wishes he were anywhere but here._

_And he's not even sure how to do this, and he really doesn't want to, but he's not a coward and he's not chicken shit and he's not a baby, and it's just a kiss, people do this shit all the time. Mostly to people they actually like or love or whatever, and he certainly doesn't feel that way about Dream, but it's just a kiss, right? Just another dumb joke that he's sure will send Dream laughing at his expense afterwards. It's just a joke._

_And he isn't sure if he's supposed to like tilt his head or like lean in or really anything of what the fuck to do here, but he doesn't really have to. Because Dream cups the side of his face and draws him close and he closes his eyes the moment there's pressure against his lips, because he'd rather block most of this out, and it's just as awkward as before and he can feel himself turn red from crown to toe. And he wishes Dream wouldn't leave his palm on the side of his face like that, fingers inching into his hair and he wishes there wasn't a hand settled on his thigh like that either, his own hands dead and limp in his lap._

_And he screws his eyes shut, counts backwards from fifty in his head, thinks about how he used to play chicken with Tubbo (never like this though) and how he'd always win because he's not some little bitch. And not about how Dream's hand is wandering too far up his leg or how much he wants to curl up in a ball, or how he doesn't reciprocate or move or do much else besides endure this and that doesn't seem to phase the teeth that catch his bottom lip or the thumb at the junction of his hip and thigh and he--_

__

He jerked back, wincing and cringing, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. The pressure of a hand on his upper thigh didn't fade. It still felt like it was there, firm, unmoving, and even as he swiped at it, it didn't leave. He stared at the wall and he willed it to vanish, but it just crouched there. He blinked, vision dewey-- He just wanted it to go away. He swiped at his leg again, sat up, brushed at the fabric of his jeans until he turned to tearing at it, as if he could claw the hand off of him. 

His heart rabbited around his chest, running and frantic, wide-eyed and frothed at the mouth in desperation and he couldn't get the fucking hand off of him-- _why couldn't he just fucking get it off_ \-- why didn't it go away-- it wasn't there-- it wasn't-- he knew it wasn't so why was it still there _why was it still there why was it still there why was it still--_

He doubled over, hands clutching at his leg, fisting into the fabric, pulling and pushing and desperate and _he needed it to go away, he just needed it to stop, he just wanted it to stop_. A small choked little whimper left him, an animal whine that bled from his throat, like he was caught in a snare, like he couldn't do much else besides thrash and flail and pull the wire tauter. 

And it was no longer his leg, it was all of him, every single inch of him, and it felt like insects and worms and everything repulsive and writhing and like fingers roaming feverish across his shoulders, along the inside of his thighs, over his hips, through his hair, and-- 

He gagged-- And he was getting rather tired of the nearly throwing up. It seemed like his body didn't know much else to do besides expel bile as if it could also cough up whatever putrid little parasite had wriggled its way so far into every fiber of him he thinks sometimes it's more him than himself. Hand clapped over his mouth, he managed to stave off the nausea. The sight of food and the stench of it from beside him didn't do him any favors, and he kicked it away with his heel. The fork clattered and spun off against the stone, the food sloshing and slipping its way around the ceramic dish. 

The tines of the fork glinted in what catchments of light filtered in. He considered and considered… Maybe, if he dug deep enough, if he sunk the dull ends of it far enough, if he twisted and pulled and yanked and wasn't chicken shit maybe he could wrench it all out of him. The black, sticky muck, the spidering tendrils, the putrid festering--

He shook his head, butted the heels of his palms against his forehead. "Fuck off," he growled, as if that was enough to get his own thoughts to leave him alone. 

He needed to eat and he needed to sleep and he needed to get out of bed and he needed to talk to Technoblade and do anything else but wallow in this fucking basement. He wasn't about to let Dream do this to him, not when he was kilometers and kilometers away, doing fuck all shit that Tommy didn't care or want to know about. Dream wasn't here. He wasn't here and that was the most important bit of it all. 

He wasn't here and Tommy had to remember that part. 

He wasn't sure why it was so fucking hard to remember that part. 

He gathered up the fork and the meal and balanced the plate on his knees while he mimed his way through being a functioning human. The food tasted like nothing (despite tasting like too much) and he had to eat quickly to avoid stopping. He would bring Technoblade an empty plate for once. He would at least accomplish that much. He could at least do that. 

Finished, he slunk up the stairs and ignored the way the sun glared in through the windows, letting him know it was well past sunrise and steadily approaching the afternoon. Technoblade sat at the table, a half-eaten meal beside his elbow and a worn journal opened to a new page, quill clutched in a hoofed hand as he scrawled something down and frowned. He discarded his plate and fork on the table, the clatter causing Technoblade to glance up and blink. And Tommy wished he didn't have the audacity to look so fucking shocked he had managed to crawl up out of the basement, like he had expected him to just sit and sulk down there all damn day. 

"Hey, uh--" Technoblade started, closing the journal and tucking it into his coat. "I honestly didn't expect you to be up before sundown, or really at all." 

"Shut up, bitch." He crossed his arms. "What's the plan for today?" 

Technoblade's eyes drifted over the plate and back up to him. "Well, visiting L'Manberg was on the list. Don't know if you wanted to do that though. I feel like it's about time I started my own propaganda campaign and I might need an extra hand or two to help put some of the material up." 

"Sure, whatever. Sounds fucking great." 

"..." 

"Why are you looking at me like that?" 

"No reason." Technoblade clapped his hands. "To L'Manberg it is."

\--

Their trek was shortened by a detour through the nether. He creeped along the obsidian and cobbled path and he didn't look down, even as the ember glow crooned up at him. He wasn't tempted by it-- He _wasn't._ Today was a totally normal day and he had absolutely zero thoughts of slipping on some loose slag, of his toe catching in between stones, of tumbling over the edge, of free-falling, of the heat scorching him before he even hit the slow, pulsing magma--

Technoblade handed him the potions at the portal and he realized they'd made it to the other side. He pocketed the extra two, fingers grasping the neck of the one that was his ticket home. He wasn't even really sure how he felt about going back. His feet moved before he could stop them, his thoughts still somewhere back at the cabin as he stepped through the obsidian gateway. He blinked, and L'Manberg spread out before him. 

He breathed in, deep and long and til his chest felt like it might pop. The sun beat down on his shoulders, pleasant and lively and so much more vibrant here than at the cabin or in Logsted, and fuck he had missed every dumb little aspect of this place so fucking much. He had never realized just how colorful L'Manberg was until he had left it. Footsteps and the impressions left as hooves pressed over the grass drew him forward and he followed close on Technoblade's heels, eyes darting to and fro. 

They made quick work of plastering up posters. Technoblade manned the tacks and a hammer as Tommy unfurled the parchment over the ones that had been pasted up. Maybe it was deliberate, but Technoblade hardly stopped to give Tommy a moment to sit and stare and let his mind wander too far. He was always there, asking him to shift the parchment, to hold something for him, to point out the next piece to cover up, and Tommy hardly had time to consider how the back of his neck prickled and itched, or that he _needed_ to glance over his shoulder at every sigh of a breeze.

Before he realized it, they were onto one of the last ones, their work having carried them to the docks where the original wanted poster still hung. Tommy glanced up to where he knew Phil's house was, but there was no sign of movement or life from within. 

"Do you still have that tack I handed you?" Technoblade asked. 

"Yeah, one sec--" 

Voices drifted from across the stretch of water that separated the dock and the shore. Tommy followed the crawl of them up the path, up to the sight of a pressed suit and a limey green jacket, and the tack that Technoblade asked for clattered from his fingers to ring against the wood. 

"Tommy?" Technoblade hissed. 

His joints had locked, clogged with the slipping, sucking feeling that dragged at his feet and held him like tar. Dream loped along beside a nervous, but smiling Tubbo and the two were talking and walking and laughing and he was far too close-- far too close and his ribs rose and didn't fall. His heart did it's best to crawl its way up his throat and out of his mouth and he couldn't move-- he couldn't even blink-- 

Tubbo gestured towards the docks and Tommy waited for the moment Dream tilted his mask towards him-- And that would be it, and he knew he was invisible but he would know somehow, he just would. Instead, Dream raised his hand-- the flinch that wracked him pathetic-- and he laid a hand on Tubbo's shoulder and he couldn't tear his eyes away. He stared and stared and turned the image over in his head and instead of Tubbo it was him, then it was Tubbo-- _him, Tubbo, him, Tubbo_ \-- it flickered and clicked back and forth until his hands curled into fists and his jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt. 

He stepped forward and a hand clumsily grabbed his upper arm. 

"Wait, Tommy--" 

He wrenched out of the loose grip, shoulders raised like hackles, lips peeled back in a loose snarl. He couldn't see the arm that wrapped around him, but he pushed at it. He had to-- He had to get to Tubbo. If he didn't-- The image behind his eyelids warped and it was him and Dream and the tent and the cot and the hand on his shoulder and then suddenly it was Tubbo and-- He wouldn't let that happen. He would fucking kill the bastard himself. 

He just had to escape the vice grip around him first, the body pressed up behind him with it, and it was too much, too close, too-- He dug his heels in and tried to pull out of the hold, butted his head back and tried to hit anything. 

"Let g--" 

A hand, hoofed and definitely not human or gloved or who's he thought it was, fumbled over his nose before clamping over his mouth and he immediately turned to using his teeth, even if he knew there could be consequences. He had to get to Tubbo. Even if Tubbo had landed him in exile in the first place, even if Tubbo could have just stood with him, fought Dream beside him, like old times, even if everything hinged on the decision made atop that obsidian wall, he couldn't just let Dream hurt his best fucking friend-- 

"Tommy, you've gotta calm down." A voice hissed in his ear and he bit down harder on what part of the hand he could. The coppery tang of blood turned his gut. 

"I'm not gonna let you go until I know you're not gonna do something completely stupid." 

He tried to slam his heel back into their shin before scrabbling at the hand over his mouth and the arm around his waist. They started to drag him backwards, like he weighed nothing, his heels knocking into wooden steps as he was walked up them. The sound of a door giving under their shoulder made him pull harder, the shade of a house swallowed him whole and he thrashed as hard as he could. Unseen hands and arms wrestled him to the floorboards until he was stuck, pinned, and he couldn't see anything holding him, there was nothing there, _no one was there_ , but there were hands on his wrists and the weight over his midsection and the blood between his teeth. 

"What the fuck?" 

"Phil, I need you to get some milk." 

"Techno, what--" 

" _Phil."_

He heard the door thud shut and footsteps hurry over the floorboards, but he couldn't tear his eyes from all the nothing above him. He tried to push up against the invisible hands pinning his arms, but they didn't even shift. 

"Get the fuck off!" 

"Tommy, you gotta chill out, man."

"Is that Tommy?" And that was Ghostbur, he would recognize that wobbly voice anywhere, and he hadn't heard Ghostbur's voice in so long, and he really wanted to ask about the invites, about why Ghostbur abandoned him, why he didn't come back, why-- just why, but there were hands pinning his wrists and hips pinning him and he-- 

"What's going on?" Ghostbur asked. "Why are you invisible? Is Technoblade here too? Phil, is that why you're grabbing milk?" 

"Yes, Ghostbur, just-- Keep Friend over there, okay?" 

Tommy bucked up, strained against the fists trapping him, tried to kick off the ground, scrabbled at it with his heels and arched off the floor boards as if somehow his arms would follow his ribs. Nothing worked. It was too heavy, too much, too unrelenting and he just-- 

"Please--" He let it spill from his mouth in a tidal wave because it had to work, something had to work, he couldn't-- He had to get to Tubbo and he had to get away from this and he-- _Not again--_

"Tommy, hey-- Look, you've gotta calm down. I can't let you up until Phil makes you not invisible. Just hang on. It's just me." 

"No, no, no--" It continued in a mantra that swung from ear to ear and ebbed and flowed and burbled endlessly. 

"Phil!" 

"I found it!" 

The splash of cold that smacked into him made him jerk back, skull connecting with the wood in a jarring thud. He spluttered and spit as he blinked whatever had been dunked on him out of his eyes. The invisible hands had become very visible and he followed them up to a wide-eyed Technoblade. The pig released him and backed away, hands raised, but he stayed, panting and collapsed on the floor, the ceiling spinning overhead. 

"Oh... hello Tommy!" 

"Hey, Ghostbur…" He muttered as the room finally righted itself and it didn't feel like he'd been tied to the mast of a sinking ship. He looked over to see the wispy ghost in question with his arm slung over a rather blue sheep. 

"Have you met Friend?" 

Tommy pawed at his eyes, lifted the edge of his shirt to scrub at his face before carding a hand through his sopping hair, nose wrinkling at the rather unpleasant smell of old milk. Why the fuck was milk the cure for invis pots anyway? He could taste it, foul and lingering on his tongue. 

Ghostbur drifted closer, the sheep in tow. "Here. He's very soft and blue."

"I can fucking see that." He raised his hand near reflexively, carded it through the sheep's wool, and it all felt like his limbs were on strings and someone else was moving them. 

He was the world's biggest idiot. It was stupid. It was stupid to even lose it. To try and go after Dream. As if he could even do anything with no armor, no weapon, no plan. If Technoblade hadn't been there, he would be dead. Slaughtered in an instant. Technoblade had saved his ass, _again._

He tangled his fingers in Friend's wool, the sheep butting into his shoulder before resting its head there as he wrapped his arms around its neck. It was oddly comforting, reminding him of excursions to petting zoos and animal farms, where the occupants were all used to being overly friendly and often man-handled. He glanced over at Phil and Technoblade, the two stood off to the side talking, Phil occasionally looking over. Tommy felt his face redden at the scrutiny, and he turned his attention back to Ghostbur who was busy fussing over Friend's lead. 

He let Friend go, the sheep still lingering despite it's new found freedom, blinking watery, black eyes at him. 

"Ghostbur?" 

"Yeah?" 

He rubbed his thumb and forefinger over the velvet texture of Friend's ear. "What happened to the invites?" 

"Oh, well, I was passing them out, you know. And I had given one to Ranboo and Fundy and then Dream came up and so I said _'Hello, Dream'_ , and then Dream told me to stop passing them out. So, I handed them to him, and then he said that you said you didn't like me anymore and that I shouldn't go back to Logsted, and that I should go towards the snow and the forests." 

"Wait-- Wi-- Ghostbur, why wouldn't I fucking like you anymore?" 

Ghostbur shrugged. "I don't know. Dream just said you would try to kill me if I went back." 

"You literally can't die!" 

"Yeah, but I didn't want to disappoint you if I came back and you tried to kill me and I didn't go away. So I wandered off like Dream said and I found Friend, and it wasn't that bad of a time and I even met up with Technoblade! But then he got dragged off, so I've been staying with Phil and it's been nice, but Phil's under house arrest which hasn't been as nice and-- wait, why are you in L'Manberg? Aren't you still exiled? Did Dream say you could come back? Oh, that'd be great if he did, you can come see the Christmas tree with me, Tommy!" 

He shook his head, heart leapt up to his throat. "No, no, Ghostbur I'm still exiled, you can't let fucking Dream or anyone know I was here, okay?" 

"But then why are you back and why are you with Technoblade? Are you living with him now? He has this neat little cabin, I can come visit you all sometime and bring Friend too." 

"Yeah, I'm living with him now and you can visit if you want but look, Ghostbur I-- I never wanted you to go away."

"But Dream said--" 

"Why would you even listen to that bitch?!" 

"I don't know, he's very convincing, and he's kind of scary sometimes. Is that why you left Logstedshire? Did you not like Dream anymore?" 

"He blew up all my shit! He fucking blew up Logsted and everything you built too!" 

"Oh... That's not very nice of him." 

"Well, he's not a very nice guy..." He mumbled. 

Ghostbur frowned, brow furrowed, eyes wandering to the side, unfocused and empty, before meandering back to him. "...did you want to take Friend for a walk?" 

"No, Ghostbur." 

"Okay." Ghostbur smiled and it was still so weird for it to reach his eyes, to watch them scrunch with the sincerity of it, when he still remembered Wilbur all but snarling and laughing and manic and-- 

"Hey, Tommy." Footsteps betrayed Phil's approach and Tommy scrambled up from the floor. 

"Phil." Tommy nodded towards Phil in lieu of a usual greeting, the awkwardness of having burst into the man's house in the midst of an impromptu wrestling match still lingering. 

"Nice of you two to drop by. It's been a bit." 

"Yeah," he mumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck and rolling his weight onto his heels. 

"Glad to see you're living with Techno now." 

"Yeah." The monosyllabic felt easier on his tongue even if he could tell by Phil's furrowed brows it didn't go unnoticed. 

Phil cleared his throat. "Uh, so, I suppose you weren't originally here to visit?" 

"Tommy has this thing where he tries to do something stupid every ten minutes and I have to stop him. It's a chronic condition. Maybe even terminal." Technoblade deadpanned. 

"Shut up, bitch." Tommy grumbled back. 

"So, that, uh, happens a lot, yeah?" Phil asked, glancing between them. 

"No!" 

"Yes."

Phil blinked.

Tommy shot a glare at Technoblade who threw one back, and it went like that for a bit until Tommy finally relented and turned to see Ghostbur unlatching the door, lead clutched in his hand and Friend followed close behind. 

"Ghostbur, mate, maybe wait a tic?" Phil started, but Ghostbur was already out the door, Friend in tow. "And there he goes…" 

"Does he do that a lot?" Technoblade asked.

"Yeah," Phil sighed. "At least he didn't take the whole door this time."

"How's it been living with a ghost anyway?" Technoblade asked. "Hope it's better than having to share a space with this idiot." 

"Hey!" He barked. 

Phil laughed. "I suppose it's alright. He doesn't take up much space and he doesn't have to eat, which are all bonuses. The sheep is a bit of a nuisance, but it's fine. Makes the whole house arrest thing less annoying." 

"Tubbo still adamant about that?" Technoblade asked.

"Sadly." 

"We can always bust you out." 

Phil gestured down to the blinking ankle monitor. "I can only disable it and trick it for so long. Eventually, I always have to come back." 

"I mean, can't you just cut it off and leave it in a chest. Not like these clowns will know the difference."

"No, it's enchanted. I cut it off and they all know. So, it's gotta stay on me." 

"Mm, unfortunate." Technoblade hummed. 

Tommy rocked his weight from the balls of his feet to his heels and back, feeling like he was intruding on the space here as Technoblade and Phil talked. He'd usually interrupt, try and make either of them trip up or yell at him, or even just get the trademark 'what is wrong with you?' to leave one of their mouths. But it didn't feel right. Or, at least, he didn't exactly feel right. Where he might have gotten enjoyment out of getting a rise out of either of them or preened under keeping all the attention centered on himself, he would rather just be back in his little basement, where he could curl up under his sheets and pretend he didn't exist for ten minutes.

"Tommy?" Phil asked. "You good, mate?" 

"Yeah…" He cleared his throat, blinking, focusing back in on the two of them, both just staring like they'd never seen him before. "Sorry, just-- just thinking." 

"Man, that's a first." Technoblade grumbled. 

Phil batted him on the shoulder. Tommy snorted. It was weird to see someone just so casually treat the _'Great and Mighty Technoblade'_ like that. 

"Do you need more invis pots to get back?" Phil asked. 

"Naw, believe it or not, I actually made enough for once." 

"Well," Phil nodded. "Then good luck getting back you two. Stay safe out there. I'll try to visit as soon as I can." 

"Good luck being forced to stay home by the world's worst toddler president." 

Phil laughed and hugged Technoblade, even if the pig didn't exactly return the hug with similar enthusiasm (a weird concept in itself to see him accept a hug from anyone at all, admittedly). He didn't miss the way Phil hesitated when he turned to him though, uncertainty flitted across the man's face before he held his arms out. And Tommy wasn't some little kid or some sniveling toddler that needed the comfort of a false, stand-in father figure who hadn't been there for any of it. For the first conflicts, for the wars, for when Dream killed him, for the Festival, for the siege on Manburg. And had only showed up in the wake of the aftermath, like some angel of vengeance to slit Wilbur from navel to neck and-- 

He practically crashed into Phil's arms, wrapped his arms around him and clung on tighter than he wanted to, but he hadn't had a genuine, no strings attached, hug in so long. He clutched at the back of Phil's shirt, like Phil might just disappear. A hand patted his back and then rested there. 

"If you ever need to talk, you can always just call. Okay?" 

He nodded, making quick work of stamping down the fever behind his eyes before Technoblade or Phil could see the film in them as he stepped back and hugged his arms around himself in the absence of anything else. Phil waved to them as they left, invisible potions in effect once more, and Tommy feeling like he was about to shake apart from the core outwards. 

"We can always visit again." Technoblade offered as they descended the flight of stairs 

Tommy stared at where his feet should be. 

"I'll figure out a way for him to get back to the cabin more often too. I think it'd be nice to have him around more." 

Tommy didn't say anything back. 

"Did you, uh, want to finish hanging stuff or…?" 

"Can we go back?" He blurted. 

Technoblade paused. "Sure." 

On their way back, they passed by a bench, _The Bench_ , settled upon an overlook, L'Manberg sprawled out under it, a jukebox left abandoned beside it. Tommy stopped, crouching to inspect it. There were no discs inside, but it was warm to the touch, like it had been played just before they wandered by. 

Briefly, he wondered if Tubbo sat here sometimes. If he played any of the discs. If he ever thought about him. If he missed him too...

He took the jukebox.

\--

Technoblade didn't say anything to him when they got back. And he had the notion it was more intentional than not. The pig just rummaged through his chests until he found an axe and without saying where he was going, he left. Tommy assumed he was going to chop more wood, the pile by the side of the cabin dangerously low, but he also thought maybe Technoblade just wanted to get away from him.

And maybe if he could just stop fucking up for five seconds, if he could just keep everything bottled up and stop it from spilling over every time he even thought about everything, maybe Technoblade wouldn't feel the need to leave him all fucking alone. 

Because alone, all he had was his own thoughts, and he really didn't enjoy their company. 

He slinked back to his basement, setting his newly acquired jukebox on the bed as he reached under it and pulled free a box. Items clattered onto the sheets as he turned it over. The nearly tattered clothes (liberally peppered with blood and soot) he had arrived to Technoblade's house in, the bandana he hadn't worn in a while, a folded piece of parchment, and a single music disc.

He reached for the disc, but he stopped over the parchment. He had forgotten about that. Ranboo and him had set up a system to give each other letters while he had been in exile and he hoped that the other didn't think he never wanted to see him again. He wasn't sure how he could get him letters now though, but maybe he could ask Technoblade when he got back. 

And he remembered this one. It was one he had never actually left for him. One he had folded up and pocketed and promptly forgotten about. He picked it up, unfolded it-- And then refolded it immediately. Fuck this. He grabbed _chirp_ instead and slotted it in the jukebox. 

The discordant notes of the weird ass song drifted through the air. And it wasn't _Mellohi_ or _Cat_ but it was something besides himself. It only worked so long though, and his leg bounced and his fingers tapped and his thoughts got jittery and jumbled. 

He got to his feet, grabbed the letter he never sent, opened it, immediately closed it again, pocketed it, and went back up the ladder. He needed some kind of distraction, and if Technoblade wasn't here to annoy, then he needed something else. 

The chests proved boring and useless as he rummaged around in them, pawing around gold and gapples and potions and whatever else that had been stashed away. There was one small chest he couldn't reach easily, and he clambered up the wall of them, fingers clinging to the lip of one and slotting his sneakers into the measly space between two others. It was precarious and he probably looked stupid, but he managed to bat the chest off it's perch and it clattered to the floor with a throaty thunk. 

He descended upon it, threw open the lid, and it was just fabric. A shiny, shifting velvet feathered by a dappled fur lining. It was Technoblade's old cloak. He moved it aside, finding more of his old clothes beneath, and even further, until his knuckles brushed along the chill of glass and he froze.

Wine bottles stared back at him. He hoisted one up by the neck, reading over the scrawled label. It must have been something he brought with him from L'Manberg or that Phil had given him, because he didn't think the village nearby made this. He turned it over in his hands, back and forth and he watched the burgundy shine back at him as the fire from the hearth danced along the glass. 

He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. It was stupid. Stupider than a lot of other things he had considered. But it didn't stop him from wandering to the wood-fire stove, clambering up onto it, and grabbing a knife from the shelf Technoblade had stashed them on, before doing his best impression of severely mangling it. It took way too long and there was probably a better way to achieve what he was trying to do, but he eventually popped off the cork. 

And he really should stop. He really should, but he didn't really want to. 

He took the opened bottle back down to the basement with him, back to where _chirp_ spun and clicked and he sat cross-legged on the bed beside it. Raised the bottle to his lips, stopped for a moment, and tilted it up-- 

_'I brought something,' Dream starts, paused at the entrance to the tent, pack slung over one shoulder._

_He sits up from the half-dazed state he had been stuck in since that morning, when he'd woken up and there'd been jack shit all to do._

_'Is it your fucking pog collection, you old bastard?''_

_'How do you even know about pogs?' Dream laughs, settling down beside him on the cot._

_He pulls his legs in to make room, rests his elbows on his knees and cups his chin in his hands. 'Phil told me about them.'_

_'That's-- whatever, it's not important. It's not pogs, and it's not anything from-- Uh... actually--' Dream pulls the neck of a bottle free from his bag._

_'Is that a fucking wine bottle?!'_

_'Naw, it's not that old.' Dream glances over at him. 'And yeah, it is.'_

_'I--' Tommy stutters. 'And why did you bring it here?'_

_'For us to drink.'_

_And he says it like that's the most reasonable thing to say in the world._

_Tommy splutters. 'Wh-- what the fuck?'_

_'I mean, unless you're too much of a kid to handle a few fingers of wine.'_

_'I'm not a kid!'_

_'Prove it.'_

_'Fucking fine. Hand it over.'_

_Dream passes it to him, settles back against the cot, arms crossed under his head looking for all the world like the smug idiot bastard he is._

_'Need any help?'_

_'No, bitch, I've got it.'_

_'There's a corkscrew in the bag.'_

_'Shut the fuck up.'_

_He gets it uncorked and then he isn't sure what to do after that. Ghostbur isn't here. He wandered off hours ago. And he's not sure how Wilbur would feel about him drinking. He's not even sure how he feels about himself drinking._

_But Dream watches him from the cot and he can feel the judgement even if he doesn't say anything. Fuck it. He takes a swig from the bottle and he nearly spits it right back out._

_Dream laughs, loud and wheezing and it burrows deep into his ear and he feels his face flush. He tries again and forces himself to take a larger draw than he wanted and it sort of stings, like he's decided to stick fruit-scented hand sanitizer up his nostrils for some dumb ass reason. He can at least tell it's made from grapes. But they've definitely gone all kinds of wrong and he supposes that's the whole point, but why the fuck do people sit around drinking this shit so often?_

_'Hand it over.' Dream holds his hand out and Tommy happily obliges. 'I would have brought something stronger, but figured this would be easier for you.'_

_Tommy flicks him off and snatches the bottle back. It goes back and forth like that for a while. Until Tommy no longer notices the taste or much of anything about it really. And he isn't quite sure if he's drunk, not like he has any measure of what that feels like to go off, but the world keeps feeling like it's tilted and everything seems way funnier-- even Dream's shitty ass jokes make him double over til his ribs ache._

_And he finds himself half-collapsed in the hold of his cot, Dream sprawled on the other half, their legs dangled over the edge. His head keeps tipping, falling onto Dream's shoulder as he tries to stay up, prove he isn't gonna be knocked on his ass by some shitty bottle of funky juice._

_Dream gets up and Tommy's head smacks into the bar of the cot. He blinks, tries to sit up, gets his legs under him and finds himself sprawled out on the canvas frame, staring up at the steeple of the tent._

_'Dream?' He slurs and his mouth feels off and he wishes he could brush his teeth, but it's hard to even get his hands to do what he tells them without them fucking up._

_He blinks and then his vision is taken up by Dream's face and he can feel Dream perched over him, knees to either side of him and hands to either side of his head. He can feel wine tainted breath hot and clammy against his face, the same way he can feel bile and alcohol going to war in his stomach. And he--_

He shook his head, the cutting tang of the wine sharp and disgusting on his tongue, clapped a hand over his mouth as bile inched up his throat. That was the first night it hadn't just been kissing. All of it steeped in burgundy and hard to even recall the exact moments after that bled through more like sensation. Like drops of blood spreading along wet cotton; faded and thin, but jarring against the white. 

Maybe that's where it all started to go wrong. Because it's not like he exactly confronted Dream the next morning, hungover to shit, wanting to hide under his sheets and pretend nothing had happened. But he could have at least told him to stop, drawn a line at the door and told Dream not to cross it. Maybe that's where it went bad... 

He just wanted Dream to stick around. He just wanted somebody to be there. He just wanted a friend. At least a single fucking friend-- And it-- He took a drink and nearly threw it all back up. Grit his teeth and told himself he wouldn't let Dream have this victory too as he took another swig and it _burned_.

And god, he didn't even know why he let it get that far. By then it was too late and even when he did say no later, it wasn't like anyone listened. 

Ghostbur still lingered around at that point too, still brought him blue, shoved it into his hands, the powder sifting through his fingers as he let it slide from his palms, and he didn't tell the ghost it did nothing. Then, as if he had never been there, Ghostbur stopped visiting too, vanished along with everyone else, and it was just Dream in his place, saying Ghostbur had wandered off, placing a hand on his shoulder, as if he wanted any kind of comfort from him. And he remembered leaning into it anyway, because who the fuck else did he have if he didn't even have the ghost of his dead brother-in-arms? 

He took another drink and had to force himself to swallow.

During the day it was always 'normal' Dream, the Dream that brought him stuff and joked around with him and their interactions began and ended in all the ways Tommy understood what being friends was. At night it was the Dream who pushed him back against his cot and chewed on his lips and his skin, and maybe it wasn't any of the comfort he wanted and maybe it made him want to crawl out of his own skeleton, but-- pathetically, awfully, desperately-- sometimes he had thought, _maybe this isn't so bad_. When it was just lying down in the aftermath, hearing someone else breathing next to him, knowing he wasn't all fucking alone out there. 

He took another drink, swiped at his lips with the back of his hand. 

He didn't want to think about it. About how he wrote a letter to Ranboo-- one that he never delivered-- after the first time. Waxed on and on about how Dream had slept with him and he was _one hundred percent_ sure friends weren't supposed to do that and that he didn't want it to happen again, but he didn't know how to stop it. He didn't want to think about how half the letter was dotted with tear stains and shaky, panic-scrawled letters, all smudged ink and sloppily desperate. As if Ranboo could have done shit. As if Ranboo _would_ have done jack shit. 

He couldn't even make an effort to show up to his fucking party. It had just been him and Dream and a cake and no appetite, because if it was him and Dream alone it always led somewhere he didn't want it to fucking go, but none of them showed up-- they never showed up when he wanted them to. When he _needed_ them to.

And he just wanted his fucking friends back. 

He wanted his fucking discs back.

He wanted his fucking _life_ back. 

Maybe if he just had the discs back, if he could just pry them out of Dream's stupid hands, it would all be fine. It would be like-- Like if he picked up the needle from the vinyl and dropped it back at the beginning of the melody before it could bump and scratch against the end of the song. Instead of where it all was now, skipping over note after note after note, until it made him want to claw his ears off. And it all felt like it was stuck, like all of him centered around one tiny little fucking point, and it kept skipping and sticking and replaying and if he just-- If he had the discs back, maybe it would be okay.

If it could all go back to how it was before, then there wouldn't even be an after. 

Just him and Tubbo, and no wars and no Dream, just a bench and L'Manberg and all of his friends, and none of the shaking and crying and the nights he woke up throat pinched around a scream with the reek of smoke and blood clogging his nose. 

He took another drink and then another and another and he buried his head in his hands and he choked up on the urge to yell. Locked it tight behind his teeth as he scrubbed at his eyes and his face and wondered why it was so hard to just forget everything. 

Why couldn't he just forget all of it? 

_The dirt beneath his boots is somehow safer than the eyes that he can feel boring into him, his fingers dug into the clasps of his armor, like if he keeps them hidden from view Dream won't ask him to do the one thing he always does._

_"Take off your armor."_

_He feels the _no_ start to form on his lips, knows that if he takes off his armor it's one less layer between him and Dream. The hesitation pulls the air taut between them, like a bow string poised to snap at the next draw, and the hand that cups the side of his face and tilts his chin up is too tender, too soft, too close. He clenches his jaw even as he doesn't think to lean away from it. _

_"I need you to take off your armor, Tommy." A thumb brushes over his cheek, through a mess of water that he hadn't even realized was filming his vision._

_His hands move to the buckles before he can stop them.  
_

He raised the bottle to his lips again, hands shaking and shuddering.

_  
The silence is deafening where it rings and clatters in his ears. His heart thuds so loud he thinks maybe it's cracked out of his chest as Dream stares down at the hidden collection he had buried under Logsted and says nothing._

_"Dream-- I--"_

_A hand reaches up through the hole that had been dug out to reveal everything he had tried so desperately to hide and grabs his wrist. The grip bruising, tendons and bones and flesh grinding against one another in a painful squeeze, as he's wrenched down into the dirt. His knees strike first and he tumbles with them, off balance and shaking as his palms smack cobbled stone and his chin nearly collides with earth._

_A boot digs into the small of his back, presses him into the dirt until he thinks his sternum might cough up his throat and he whines, scrabbles at the ground as his vision whites._

He nearly dropped the bottle as he jerked his head to the side and coughed, the taste of silt still caught between his teeth and heavy on his tongue. The wine went down easily, chasing away the reek of gun powder and blood that lingered. 

_He stares down at the cake, the candles tilted and sloppily placed, the frosting beginning to sag under the sun and the heat. Dream watches him from over the tops of the winking flames and the mask stares in all it's impassive judgement._

_Minutes tick by and he looks back towards where the portal is, to how empty and vacant and hollow it is, to the sunset slowly inching closer. And he's never felt more alone._

_"Guess none of them care enough about you to come."_

_He grits his teeth._

_"Did you still wanna eat this?" Dream gestures to the cake and it's all lazy, smug indifference._

_"I've lost my appetite." He mumbles, glancing back at the portal._

_Not even Ranboo came, not even Tubbo. Nobody. He's all alone out here. He's-- They just left him out here to rot._

_The sound of footsteps has him glancing back up as Dream rounds the table and settles back against the sandy little surface Tommy had built with his own hands in hopes maybe it would mean something. Dream stares down at him._

_"Did you really think they cared about you, Tommy?"_

_"I-- I mean, I just thought--"_

_A hand cards through his hair, ruffles it and shakes it out and he doesn't even flinch anymore._

_"Thought what?"_

_"Well, they're my friends. I thought they'd at least fucking try to show up."_

_"They're not your friends, Tommy." Dream says and somehow, in some way, that makes so much sense to him._

_They were never his friends. His friends wouldn't fucking exile him, abandon him on the beach, never visit and never reply to his letter or wander off into the woods without so much as a goodbye. None of those people were his friends._

_"So, I'm all alone out here?" He whispers, more to himself than Dream._

_"No you're not." Dream grabs his shoulder and squeezes it. "You have me."_

Fuck. Fuck this wasn't working. Why wasn't it working? He needed it to go away, but it was all swirling and tangled up, fish caught in a net and each one more spiked and barbed than the last one as he plucked them free. Another swig and he sagged forward, fingers clenched tight in his hair as he tugged, like he could pull the memories out of his own skull and smash them under his heel. 

_It's none of the comfort he wants, none of the warmth and tenderness he ever wants, but it's all he has. The arm slung over his waist, breath tickling the back of his neck, his spine curled and pressed back against someone else. Even if it's warm, even if it's so warm it burns, It never seems to thaw out the chunk of bloodied ice under his ribs._

The ceiling greeted him as he blinked and squinted up at it and he hadn't even remembered falling back onto the bed but he must have, the wine bottle tipped over onto the sheets and slowly spilling its guts. He righted it, fingers tapping over the glass, and he raised it up-- 

_'Dream?'_

_The lips pause their trail down the column of his throat. 'Yeah?'_

_He stares up at the top of the tent. 'Sometimes I think about dying.'_

_A laugh huffs into the side of his neck. 'That's stupid.'_

The shatter of glass startled him, the stretching stain of colored liquid on the far wall and his own extended hand betraying his actions. He collapsed, sliding down the side of the bed until he hit cool stone, the discordant melodies of _chirp_ whining in his ears. And he wished it was _Cat_ , wished it was _Mellohi_. The jukebox whined and stopped as he reached up and batted it off the bed. Clattering and clunking, it rolled to a stop and silence filled the basement. 

_'Why do you even give a fuck about the discs?'_

_Fingers brush back a curl of hair that had fallen into his face and he lets them without protest. 'Because you care about them.'_

_His brow furrows, eyes searching over the contemplative face in front of his, and it was weird to see the same dead-eyed look in Dream's eyes as his mask._

_'But-- But they're mine.'_

_Dream smiles, all sharp and knowing. 'Exactly.'_

"Fuck. Fuck off. Fuck this. I-- Fucking--" He slammed his hand into the stone, the biting sting of it working to momentarily remind him he was indeed not anywhere but here. He focused on the slight throb, the reddened rise of his palm as blood rushed to the surface. 

_He holds his cheek, shoulders hiked up, eyes filmy and vision unfocused. Hisses through his teeth when fingers pry his hand away._

_'If you'd just listen the first time, this wouldn't happen.' A calloused finger runs over the blossoming welt, and he knows it's raised and red in the vague shape of fingers and a palm.  
_

He gritted his teeth, dug his fingers into his thigh. 

_The still reflection of the sea reveals the imprint of hands wrapped around his throat like a collar, he raises a hand to them, traces over the outlines._

He shook his head. 

_'You can't trust him.' Ranboo says, eyes pinched, frown deep and worried._

_'He's my friend though…' He mutters, and thinks about the hidden purples and reds dotted against his thighs and bloomed over his hips like a rotting meadow._

He held up his arm, turned it over and inspected it. The faint bruises on his wrists, still there from earlier, when Technoblade had wrestled him to the ground and pinned him, glared back at him. His gut twisted. The far wall swam and warped, his cheeks hot, the splash of tears unexpected as he pawed at them, tried to shove them away, back in, stopper up the leaking dam. 

_His eyes sting, like hot pokers have been shoved to either corner of them and forced them to water. He tries to swipe away the tears before Dream sees them. Knows he doesn't succeed when a hand catches his wrist, pins it back down against the sheets, and soft tutting ghosts over his ear. A thumb gently swipes away the evidence and he chokes back the small hiccup under his sternum._

He scrubbed at his cheeks, scrubbed hard enough they hurt. 

_'Tommy.'_

His hand covered the back of his neck, shoulders drawn up, spine curved away from where he swore his name had been breathed against his nape in a warmth-tainted pant. That wasn't how his name was supposed to ever sound. That wasn't-- 

_Everyone always leaves him. They all eventually leave. Sand still sat in his shoes, dug under his heels and between his toes and annoying in the fabric of his jeans. The beach party a flop, his friends-- not his friends, fuck them-- made it perfectly clear they weren't ever coming._

_Dream sits, perched on the edge of his cot, and he contemplates leaving the tent, just abandoning the entire prospect and walking into the woods and leaving. He can just leave. Dream has mentioned it before, about how if he wants to, he can pack up and go further away from here._

_He lingers at the exit. Lingers on the threshold between escape, between freedom, between finally abandoning this. Dream stands, unfolds himself like a toy soldier, all straight-backed and too tall, and lopes for the same exit Tommy's blocking._

_'I'll come back tomorrow…' Dream says, brushing by him._

_And it's a mercy, a small mercy. He should just take it, let him leave. It's a night of peace and quiet and actual rest. He should just let him leave…He should-- But, his chest aches; hollow, empty, like some beast had reached in and scooped out every organ except for his heart, which taps sickly and ill against his sternum._

_He grabs Dream's wrist._

He screwed his eyes shut, hunched over his legs, and tried to figure out how to breath properly, head swimming and limbs feeling like they'd twisted and melted up in their sockets.

It was fucked up that Dream got to invade every space he tried to make for himself. He couldn't even fucking drink without him being there, lurking around every turn; in his head, in the corners of his vision, everywhere he looked. He couldn't even take part in something he should have looked forward to in the future. The whole drinking with his friends and shit, instead he was alone, in a basement, getting shit-faced for no reason other than he needed to prove to Dream that he still could. And the man wasn't even fucking here nor would he even care, but he had gone and muddied it all up and Tommy couldn't scrub the stains out. The taste of wine would always tangle up with Dream, and he didn't even know how to begin to unwind the two. 

It was fucking pathetic. He was fucking pathe--

"Tommy?" 

The distant echo of his name had him trying to stumble to his feet, the sound of footsteps thudded over the floorboards above as Technoblade wandered back into the ground floor of the cabin. It reminded him of when he first arrived here, battered, bruised, still feeling like the heel of a boot was driving it's way through his back and the pop of explosions heavy in his ears. 

Hooves clacked against the rungs of the ladder as Technoblade descended, and he had half a mind to feel a sting of shame settle over his shoulders. Technoblade turned, eyes flicking from him, to the wine bottle smashed across the room, the stains of burgundy spidering and slipping down the wall, to the jukebox still clicking and choking softly on air, and the pig's eyes pinched.

"What is wrong with you?"

Tommy's lip curled up, teeth baring, the disappointment aimed at him sent the shame spiraling into white-hot anger that snapped at his knuckles and curled them into fists. 

"Shut up, bitch! What the fuck is wrong with _you_?" He snarled. "You fucking-- you fucking-- you ruined everything. You-- if you'd never-- if you'd never summoned the withers it'd all still be--"

"Still be what?" 

"I don't know!" He shook his head, throwing an arm out. "It'd all be fine!" 

"Tommy, why are you getting wasted in my basement?" 

"Don't--" He tried to step towards him, but his foot decided to disappear out from under him and he stumbled, his arms finding the edge of his bed and the stone far too cold beneath his crumpled legs. "Don't avoid the-- the fucking point." 

"And please elaborate, what point are you trying to make?" 

He glared up at Technoblade."I-- it's-- you're a fucking-- you're just a pig." 

Technoblade rolled his eyes. "Oh, man, I've never heard that one before." 

"Shut the fuck up." 

"Tommy, get up." Technoblade extended his hand towards him. 

He looked away from the offer. "No." 

And he wanted to keep spitting it. Just say no until it was the only word he ever said for the rest of his entire fucking life. 

"Tommy." 

He listed against the bed, elbows sliding over the sheets as he cradled his head and tried to pretend the room wasn't tilting and spinning. "Fuck off." 

"Yeah, no. You don't get to tell me to do that in my own house." 

"It's my house." 

"It's literally not." 

"'tis." 

"Okay. Since you're just being deliberately obtuse now." 

A hand dug into his upper arm, he pawed at it, tried to pry it off as it hauled him to his feet. 

"Le' go." 

"You need to get some water and food in you. And I don't want to wait until you're vomiting on yourself and all over my house to do it." 

He tugged at the grip, trying to return to the sanctuary of face planting into his bed. "Don't wanna eat." 

"Should have thought of that before you drank my wine." 

"Fuck you." 

"You're very annoying drunk, you know that?" 

"You're--" He slurred, blinking. "You're the annoying one." 

"Why couldn't Phil be here to handle this?" Technoblade rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "Okay, look, I'm upset with you, Tommy. You understand that, right?" 

Technoblade's disappointment sent a pike straight through his chest, but he laughed like it wasn't threatening to send him to his knees. "I understand you're a bitch." 

The hand spun him around, another grabbing his other arm, and he jolted slightly when they shook him. Not hard, but enough that he had to really focus on keeping his feet steady. "Tommy. _Focus_. You understand you shouldn't go through my things and drink any of that, right? It's not for you, okay? You can't just take whatever you want and you can't just get drunk under my house. I'm supposed to be responsible for you, and that means making sure you aren't doing anything stupid. And this, right here-- This counts as something stupid." 

He leaned back, wishing Technoblade would just let him go. "Should've hidden it better." 

"Why would you even-- have you ever even been drunk before?" 

"Once." He muttered. "It wasn't-- it sucked." 

"So why do it again?" 

He had to prove-- he had to prove that Dream couldn't ruin this too. 

"Dunno," he said. "Cause he can't fucking stop me." 

"Who?" 

"Dream." 

The hands left his arms finally and he collapsed back against the bed, arms barely keeping him propped up as he stared up at Technoblade and blinked. 

"What can't he stop you from doing?" Technoblade frowned, brows drawn tight.

He smiled, but it didn't feel right."Stuff." 

"What stuff?" 

"Everything."

"You're not making any sense, Tommy." 

He waved a hand, gesturing vaguely."It's just like-- it's like-- he's always there and shit. Like everything I do it's like… he's just there, yeah? It's fucking-- It's annoying, I don't know, but I'm also-- It's fucking-- I'm…" He swallowed, fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt as he avoided Technoblade's eyes. "I'm scared." 

"Scared?" 

Tommy nodded and his eyelids felt like he had tied weights to them. "Yeah…" 

"Scared of what?" 

Sleeping sounded like a good idea and he let his arms crumple under him, until he was half-sprawled on the bed, the ceiling wavering in and out with the flicker of his eyelids. "I don't-- I don't fucking know..." 

"Tommy? Hey--" Technoblade cursed under his breath and Tommy almost called him on the slip up, but he was out like a light.

\--

He flickered back to awareness like an old bulb, dim and sallow, the choked glow dying with a grinding click and then snapping back to life. Jolting up, sheets slipped off his shoulders and he squinted down at them. Someone had tucked him in, he wriggled his toes and realized his shoes had been taken off too.

The wavering trickle of light drew his eyes to the bedside table, the motion sending his skull rattling, pike driven straight down through his temple as he rubbed at it and groaned. He licked his lips, ran his tongue over his teeth and his mouth tasted like shit, puffy and dry and like he'd spent an hour stuffing it full of cotton in the world's worst version of Chubby Bunny. 

Fuck. His head pounded, he scrubbed at his eyes and was infinitely grateful that the sun wasn't beaming in from the slit of a cellar window. He might actually contemplate jabbing them out if it had been anything more than candle-light. 

He blinked, trying to wrench his bearings to him, grasping the wayward rope of them and tugging. He had gotten drunk under Technoblade's house. Groaning he kneaded at his eyes. Fuck, he had gotten drunk under Technoblade's house. Why was he so fucking stupid? 

Fumbling for the candle he cupped a hand over it, staved off the stabbing shine of it, the cheerful winking of it far too much to handle as his entire body tried to go to war with him. Everything felt shitty. Down to his fucking stomach. His fingers knocked into glass and he glanced over, eyes narrowed. A potion sat on the nightstand, innocent and innocuous, a small piece of parchment tucked under it. He plucked it free, squinted at it and tried to make sense of the jumbled words. It took him way too long to finally understand what it said. 

_'for the headache'_

He snatched it up faster than he'd like to admit, practically ripping the cork out with his teeth and tossing it across the room, chasing away the grinding between his ears with the tingly fizz of a wasted healing potion. Technoblade could always just brew more, with the way he hoarded supplies in his wall of chests. It wasn't a big deal. The flush of heat along his shoulders and the way his stomach pinged around at his feet spoke differently from the nonchalance he tried to shrug on like a worn jacket. 

The amount of times he had landed himself squarely in the _'owing one'_ territory when it came to Technoblade was getting concerning. 

When he surveyed his room, without the constant gritty layer of feeling like Technoblade's horse had stomped all over him, he realized someone had cleaned up. The jukebox righted and tucked under the bed beside his box of meager belongings, broken glass swept and gone, the wine staining the wall and floor vanished.

He sighed, scrubbing at his face and resting a hand over his lips as he tipped his head back to regard the ceiling. Yeah… He wasn't sure how he was supposed to casually face him after that. It hadn't exactly gone to plan. He had hoped the alcohol would just muddy it all up, make him forget, even for a bit, dull it all like it had the first time. Instead, it had wrestled it all to the front, shoved it so far into the light he'd tripped face-first over it. 

He kneaded his thumb at the center of his palm, smoothed out the tension there and focused on the give and stay of bones and tendons. It was like… Like Dream left his smudged fingerprints on every aspect of him somehow. And he couldn't wash them off, not completely, the impression was always there, staining him no matter how much bleach he tried to pour on it, scrub into it. 

Voices, muffled and terse drifted from the upper floor and he jerked his head to the side, tried to focus on where they meandered down the ladder. No such luck, the involved parties too far up. He crept close, bare feet chilled against the stone as he kept his ear turned towards them, and picked his way up a few rungs of the ladder to try and get a better read on what was being said. 

"--think he's hiding something." 

His stomach flipped at the sound of Technoblade's voice. 

"Techno." 

And he guessed Phil had gotten here at some point, his face colored at the thought of Phil having to witness him like that. 

"He won't say it, but he is." 

"You can't just pry it out of him though, that's not how this works." 

"He got drunk under my house, Phil!" 

He recoiled at the actual frustration in Technoblade's voice, hand slipping around the ladder.

"And did you ask him why?" 

"No, I was a bit busy being concerned over the fact he got drunk under _my house_." 

"Shit, mate, how the hell did he even find--" 

"He knocked the top chest off. I don't even know why he'd have a reason to dig around in there. That kid is basically a rodent with how much he finds his way into things he shouldn't." 

"Fuck… Maybe he got curious, accidentally found it, and just-- I don' know, felt like he needed to do that. But you should probably ask him why, Techno." 

Technoblade sighed. "I don't know if I can this isn't exactly in my, uh, jurisdiction." 

"You can try to sit down and talk to him." 

"Can't you do that? Please?" 

"I don't know if he would want to tell me." 

Technoblade sighed, long and drawn out. "Of all people, why me?"

"He came to you first. Maybe that's important somehow." 

"I don't even know if he realized it was my house he had holed up under." 

"I think he knew." 

"Phil, I don't even know how to ask." 

"Just wait for him to come up, ask him to sit down for a sec, and then go from there." 

"You sure you can't just stay and do this instead of me?" 

Phil laughed. "Sorry, this is up to you, mate. I'll be back later though, just gotta make sure they haven't popped in to check on me." 

There was the distant sound of a door opening and shutting, the muffled rustle of feathers and wings, and then silence. He tracked the footsteps, the creak of a chair betraying that Technoblade had sat down at the table. The heavy sigh that followed bringing up images of Technoblade hunched over, head buried in his hands. 

He considered just staying down in the basement, not venturing up for at least the rest of the night and waiting til the sun rose. But, like a bandaid, he also figured he might as well get it over with. Rip it off and fuck the consequences-- At least it would be done. His hands fumbled over the rungs, slick with sweat and his neck hot with a new wave of shame. He focused on the chill of his toes, and maybe he should have at least put socks back on, but it was too late as he reached the ground floor and then climbed further, until he reached the hearth space. It would have been funnier to exit the ground floor and clobber up the steps, bust in through the front doors and pretend he had gotten lost in the snow, if not only to diffuse the situation, then to watch Technoblade's eyes go from concerned to annoyed. 

Annoyed he knew how to deal with. Whatever the fuck had been in Technoblade's voice while talking to Phil-- He didn't know how the fuck he was supposed to deal with that. 

Stepping off the ladder once he reached the top floor, he shuffled around for a beat, eyes flicking to Technoblade sat at the table, the pig not even doing him the common courtesy of pretending he wasn't there until he wanted to be seen. Instead, Technoblade's eyes tracked him, watched every second, every minute tic as he slunk for the opposite side of the table, fingers tapping on his thighs, shoulders hiked up, ears red under the scrutiny. 

He folded himself into the chair, in the most uncomfortable and awkward way possible, one knee drawn to his chest, the other dangled and canted to the side under him. Shuffling around he tried to find a comfortable position, and pretend there weren't eyes dissecting his every move from across the expanse of oak. Eventually, he settled on sitting straight-backed, hands clasped on the table, feet sat properly against the floor. He tried to not fidget, tried to stay rigid and unbothered, eyes flicking up to Technoblade's and then back down when he couldn't handle eye contact. After a minute his leg bounced and his fingers fell in a rythmic pattern against the table. 

Technoblade cleared his throat and he tried to cover up his flinch. "Can we, uh, talk for a sec."

"What's the shit," He rushed out. 

"The what?" 

He finally looked up, held Technoblade's eyes with his own, lips turned into a grimace. "What's this fucking about, big man?" 

"Uh…" Technoblade rubbed at the back of his neck. "You-- You got drunk under my house, Tommy." 

He swallowed, throat tight and tongue heavier than it should be. "I--" 

"I mean if you wanted to just try a drink I could have gotten the kiddie cup down, given you a tiny bit and at least monitored you." 

His face colored. "I'm not a kid!"

Technoblade leveled him with a bored look. "You're still underage and you're still a minor. You shouldn't be drinking."

"I--" He started, but he didn't really have anything to counter.

"Not to mention your behavior's been erratic. Like you're all over the place, man. It's getting concerning." 

"Techno--" 

"And I know you probably didn't have the greatest time in exile, and I don't know if this is all 'cause of that, but if there's something you wanted to talk about-- Like, uh, I don't know, man-- I'm not good at this, but if you needed someone to talk to, I guess-- You can talk to me." Technoblade ended it more like a question than a statement. 

"It's--" It all tangled up on his tongue and spilled out wrong and he huffed out a sharp breath. "I don't know." 

Technoblade blinked. "Okay. Uh, don't know what?" 

"I don't know why I'm--" He clenched and unclenched his fists. "I'm so fucking angry all the time. It's like-- I've never really had a problem with-- With just wanting to-- To like fucking smash shit and I don't know if--" _'I don't know if he did that to me too.'_

"Uh, well… Anger is a normal response to feeling trapped." Technoblade shrugged. "It's how animals react to situations they find less than… comfy. They bite the hand that feeds and all that." 

"I'm not a fucking animal." 

Technoblade sighed. "My point was that you got out of exile and maybe you still think you're trapped." 

"What are you, my fucking therapist?" 

"Someone's gotta be apparently." 

"I'm not fucked up in the head." He wrinkled his nose. 

Technoblade paused for too long and he curled his lip. 

"You think I'm fucked in the head!" He spit. 

Technoblade raised his hands. "No, no-- Look, man, I'm just trying my best, alright? I'm not the expert on--" He gestured between them. "Whatever this is."

"What, so 'cause Phil told you to try and talk to me, you'll make a fucking effort? Do you always listen to everything he fucking tells you?" He sneered. "If he told you to walk off a fucking cliff, would you just do it? You like his little bitch boy or something?"

"Oh my god…" Technoblade groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face. "You're very hard to talk to, you know that?" 

"Then why even try, dickhead?" 

"Because it's my job to make an effort! I'm trying to reach out to you before I find you dead in my house, Tommy!" 

He recoiled at the volume, and he'd never heard him raise his voice like that, never heard it waver or even crack like that. 

"I really don't want to come home one day and you've--" 

"I've what?" He narrowed his eyes. "Killed myself?" 

"That." Technoblade grimaced.

"Why would I do that? Why--" Tommy spluttered, heart beating so fast against his ribs he felt nauseous. "Why do you think I would do that, Technoblade?" 

"I don't know. I mean, you've-- Full offense, kid, but you've got a lot of red flags for--" 

"For what? Being fucked up? Being fucked in the head? Sorry I'm not fucking smiling and laughing and making dick jokes all the time, big man. I'll be sure to take the goddamn criticism to heart and make at least one fucking joke every hour from now on." 

" _Bruh_ \--" Technoblade buried his face in his hands. "How are you this--" Technoblade sighed, scrubbing at his eyes before settling back against his chair. "Tommy." 

"What?" He grit out.

"Level with me for a sec." Technoblade tapped his finger on the table. "Do you think about hurting yourself?" 

He glanced off to the side and then back. "...no." 

Technoblade laughed. "That was the weakest no I have ever heard in my entire time knowing you." 

"So what if I do? I've never--" He stumbled over his words, throwing a hand out. "I mean, I haven't fucking acted on it! I'm not-- I'm not stupid."

"It wouldn't, uh-- It wouldn't make you stupid even if you had, but I'm glad you haven't." Technoblade paused. "But you have thought about it then?" 

"Sometimes, yeah, I don't fucking know. It just-- Kind of happens." 

Technoblade's lips thinned. "Do you, uh-- Do you know what causes it?" 

"What is this? You gonna fucking interrogate me? Figure out what's fucked up about me so you can, what, run off and tell Phil?" 

"No. I'm trying to figure out what triggers it so I don't accidentally do that." 

"You won't." 

Technoblade raised a brow. "Won't do what?" 

"I mean you haven't-- You haven't like-- You aren't the fucking--" He waved his hand. "You're not the trigger or whatever." 

"Okay… Then, uh-- Do you know what is?" 

Dream. He knew it was Dream. It was always Dream. 

"It's-- Uh--" His eyes darted to the table and stayed there. "Anything to do with my exile." 

That was enough, right? Technoblade didn't need more, right? 

"Anything? Or like specific stuff?"

"Uhm," He fidgeted in the chair. "Uh, mostly… stuff that Dream did." 

"Like?" 

"Uh, like taking my armor, blowing up my stuff…" _'Touching me, sleeping with me,'_ all of which went unsaid, and he paused, eyes flicking off the side as he rubbed at his jaw. "He, uh-- He fucking hit me sometimes." 

Technoblade's eyes narrowed. "He… hit you?" 

"Yeah if I didn't listen, like when he asked me to throw my shit in a hole and blow it up. He'd like--" He mimed swinging a bat and nearly laughed at the morbidity of even doing that. 

"Alright, that's-- That's--" 

"To be fair, I should have just listened to him the first time." 

"I mean he shouldn't have-- He shouldn't have hit you." Technoblade gestured towards him. "You understand that, right?"

He shrugged. "If I had to live with myself I'd probably fucking hit me too." 

"Okay, uh, that's-- See, that's not a normal sentence people say." 

"And what the fuck would a 'normal person sentence' be?" 

"That you understand he shouldn't have hit you." 

He crossed his arms, tight over his chest, shoulders hiked up. "What if I deserved it?" 

"I don't think even if you hit him first you'd deserve getting hit back." 

His brow furrowed. "What? You don't believe in the fucking eye for an eye principle?" 

"Eye for an eye and we're all blind." 

He snorted. "Says the fucking guy who wants to blow up L'Manberg for the Butcher Army shit." 

"This isn't about me." 

"Oh, does big man not like being the one getting fucking psychoanalyzed?" 

Technoblade grimaced. "Alright, we're getting off track again." 

He frowned, leg bouncing under the table, foot tapping and toes squirming around. He was hoping to wear Technoblade down thin, until he stopped prying, stopped trying to lift every stone until he found the answer he was looking for. 

"So, besides, uh blowing up your stuff, making you take off your armor--" Technoblade ticked off a finger for each one. "And, uh, hitting you. Was there anything else?" 

"Uh--" He tipped his chair back, balanced it on it's back two feet and considered the ceiling for a moment. Pretending to really think was easy, easier than admitting that he knew exactly what else had happened, every little infraction and slight. He let the chair fall back onto four limbs, propped his elbow on the table and cupped his chin as he tapped at his cheek. "I don't know." 

"Are you sure?" 

He shrugged. "I mean, I guess he's the one who first gave me wine." 

Technoblade blinked. "He brought you alcohol?" 

"He brought lots of things, like, usually he'd-- I don't know, like fucking books and stuff. Food. Whatever. Stuff to be entertaining 'cause it got real fucking boring out there. Sometimes we played games and shit too. He even let me use his trident once, it was pretty fucking cool." 

The back of his neck pricked with sweat, his shoulders that of a wind up toy for how tightly drawn they felt, and he smiled while he said all of it, showed his teeth and let his cheeks dimple, even if he kind of wanted to vomit. 

Technoblade waved a hand, like he was physically batting off all the filler Tommy had dumped onto the table. "Wait, wait, wait-- I'm still-- He let you drink?" 

"Yeah." He shrugged. "It wasn't a big deal." 

His chest hurt. It ached. His ribs pulsed and tightened, and threatened to cave in. 

"That's, uh… Yeah… A choice on his part." Technoblade grimaced. "You, uh-- You mentioned earlier that you'd only been drunk once…" 

Too close. Technoblade was too close, his words meandering into territory that he would rather chuck himself from the window than ever let be brought under the light. He smiled, he kept the smile on because if he let it fall Technoblade would know, he would know and that-- He couldn't-- 

"You also said it had sucked, the first time you got drunk..."

"Yeah I was fucking vomiting on myself and couldn't stand and shit. He had to help me not choke on my own spit like a little bitch. It was embarrassing." The lie left him so easily it should have been terrifying.

"Right." Technoblade's eyes pinched. 

He could tell him. He could. He could just say it. Just let it slide out of his mouth and into the air and let Technoblade grab it, consider it, watch those eyes pinch with more disgust and less concern. He could tell him that while he hadn't wanted any second of it, that he hadn't-- That he had initiated it once, that after the failed beach party he had reached out first. That the fact he had reached out at all still sat heavy in the pit of him. 

"Are we done here?" He bit out, foot tapping.

"We can be." Technoblade got up. "You want some, uh... Some hot chocolate or something?" 

"Sure, whatever." 

The rummage of pots filtered through the cabin, the clink of mugs and of wood being fed into the belly of the stove. Tommy folded his arms on the table, rested his chin on them, ignored the way his spine pinched in protest at the angle, and stared at the empty chair across from him. 

Would it have made it better if he told him? 

It felt like he had just blinked before a steaming mug, the top layered liberally in marshmallows, was set in front of him. Technoblade reclaimed his chair, own mug in hand, and he considered him for a moment. He could just say it. It would be easy. It was just words. A few breaths of air and then someone else would finally know. 

But he didn't want to see the aftermath. The knowing; the way Technoblade would look at him and, just like him, always see Dream. He didn't want that. He didn't want to see everything he already knew reflected back at him in someone else's eyes. 

Grabbing up the mug, he wrapped his fingers around it, let the heat chase away the chill. He liked this dynamic, the one where Technoblade didn't look down on him, didn't think he was weak, didn't ask more of him than Tommy was willing to give. He liked the way things were. And he didn't want to ruin that. Drop the burden of what had happened onto someone else's shoulders and watch them hoist it around. 

Grabbing up the spoon, he spun the mallows around in the mug, the clink of ceramic against metal clicking in his ears. If he told Technoblade, if he said it out loud, if he let the words leave where he had kept them trapped up under his diaphragm, then it would become all too… Too real. Too close. Too-- 

He huffed out a breath. If he told him then, he would have to face it down, lay it all out, and let fingers prod and pull at the wound in order to stitch it up. And maybe he was a _coward._

"Tommy," Technoblade started. 

He looked up, hands still clasped around the mug. Flexed his fingers around it and swallowed, spit sticking thick to his tongue. "Yeah?" 

"If there was anything else you ever wanted to--" Technoblade cleared his throat. "If you ever need to tell me anything else, uh-- I'm always willing to listen." 

He could tell him. He could. Maybe he should. Maybe he would… Eventually.

He snorted. "You really are bad at this, big man." 

"Hey, man, I may not be Phil, but I still have ears." 

"Yeah, and they're all floppy and weird and shit." 

"Better than being as puny and small as yours." 

"Can you hear a fucking fly fart from a mile away with big fuck all ears like that?" 

Technoblade rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and Tommy considered it a victory. 

He raised the mug to his lips, the saccharine aroma of chocolate settling in his nose and over his tongue. The whistle of the wind battering at the sides of the cabin swelled over the crackles of the hearth and the snaps of the wood fire stove. He watched Technoblade nurse his own cup of cocoa across the table, the pig flipping open the journal he carried around, quill in his other hand as he started to write. It was… homely. Warm. The mug in his hand not the only thing thawing out his chest. He had grown so used to the hollow settle of nothing holed up under his ribs that it was weird to feel it pinch and tighten. 

Technoblade tapped the page, muttering under his breath, before getting up. 

"Uh, you good, big man?"

"There was something--" Technoblade opened up a chest, the sounds of items clacking around and shifting following. "I forgot about this, was gonna give it to you earlier, but uh, kinda found you in a less than ideal situation in the basement, so figured I'd wait." 

"What is it?" 

Technoblade pulled out a disc, the vinyl dully refracting the firelight. "Here. It's not your others, but figure it might do for now." 

"Oh, shit is this fucking--" He snatched it, twisting it to and fro. "Is this fucking Pigstep?" 

"Yeah, unfortunately." 

"What, not a fan?" 

"The name's a bit kitschy in my opinion." 

"Thought you'd love anything called pig." 

"That's literally not how any of that works. You don't see me making my house pig-themed, do ya?" 

"Well, since you live in it, it might as well be a fucking pig sty, yeah?" 

Technoblade sighed. "Just go play the stupid disc." 

"Did you wanna listen too?" 

Technoblade opened his mouth, closed it, and then-- "Sure."

He blinked, he hadn't expected him to say yes. He contemplated making Technoblade clamber down the ladder and huddle in his bedroom below to listen to the disc, then considered bringing it upstairs, but settled on the fact the former idea was funnier. Scrambling down the ladder, _Pigstep_ clutched in one hand, he skipped the last half of the rungs and stumbled over his feet as he landed. 

"Please refrain from breaking a leg. You've already done enough damage today." Technoblade deadpanned, taking the ladder more carefully behind him. 

"Shut up, bitch, you're just old." 

He grabbed the jukebox, toggled out _chirp_ and slapped in _Pigstep_ , he pressed play before Technoblade had even made it to the basement floor. Eagerly he set the jukebox down on the ground, pulled his legs close as he sat on his bed and grinned at the starting melody. 

"I really don't understand your obsession with these things. They're just pieces of plastic that make nice sounds." 

"They're-" He paused. There was no way to really explain what the discs were to him. Not any way that would make sense at least. They were just-- It was part of him somehow. Not the music, or even the plastic itself, but the idea. "They're just cool." 

"Cool…" Technoblade echoed. "Right." 

The pig hovered awkwardly nearby, seemingly unsure what to do, eyes glancing between the empty space on the bed and the floor and then back towards the ladder. And he knew by now Technoblade wasn't the most socially apt person-- or rather pig-- but this was painful. 

"You can just sit, you know? The floor won't fucking bite you." 

Technoblade huffed, ending up cross-legged on the stone, hooved hands rested on his knees. "I better not hear you make fun of me when I can't get up 'cause this messed up my knees." 

"You're not that old, bitch." 

"Old enough to have bad knees." 

"Oh, you're just full fucking falling apart, init?" 

"That's what happens when you suddenly become the guardian of a feral little raccoon kid." 

He stiffened, eyes darting up from the jukebox to Technoblade who's eyes had widened as if he just realized what he said. 

"Don't get all paternal on me and shit. It's weirdchamp, big man." He griped, but the little spark under his sternum stayed. 

Technoblade rolled his eyes. "Don't worry. I'd rather chop off my own ears than witness anyone ever call me anything close to a parent." 

"Not like you'd ever even have fucking kids, you can't even get a girl." 

"I don't exactly look for _'girls'_ , but alright." 

"That's your problem. You've stopped getting out there, man." He shook his head. "We gotta get you back in the fucking game." 

"I don't think I ever signed up for the game." 

"Oh! Hey-- What if-- What if I was your coach!" 

"That sounds like a terrible idea." 

"I know loads about women! Especially hot ones!" 

"Sure you do." Technoblade eyed him skeptically, huffing out a breath that sounded like a laugh. 

"I had a girlfriend in exile, you know. Her name was Hot Girl." 

"Seems totally legit and not like you put a carved pumpkin on some wood blocks and labeled it 'Hot Girl'." 

He spluttered. "She was totally real, you're just fucking jealous!" 

"Yes, I'm jealous of you and your pumpkin girlfriend. Oh, no, Tommy, you've found me out, how will I ever recover from this humiliation?" Technoblade drawled sarcastically. 

"Shut the fuck up!" 

"At least I don't date gourds." 

He spluttered. "At least I date!" 

"That's all you got? Low blows, man. Like the bar isn't even in sight that's how low you've gone. Get better material." 

"Shuthrffu." Anything but actual words left him as he tried to find a way to counter. "I-- You're-- You're just a bitch." 

"We gotta get you like a quip book or something, or at least a thesaurus. If I have to hear the same curse words eight hundred times in a row I might actually consider the bar of soap method." 

He wrinkled his nose. "That's fucked up. Do people actually do that?"

"Obviously your parents didn't." 

He snorted. "Not like some soaps gonna stop me from saying whatever I want, dickhead." 

"You're right. We would need some industrial grade bleach to deal with all of--" Technoblade gestured at him. 

"You gestured to all of me! What the fuck!" 

"My point stands." 

"Whatever, bitch…" He grumbled, but there wasn't any real venom behind it. 

The conversation lulled after that, _Pigstep_ still churning away, and he let his thoughts drift with it. He tapped at his leg in time with the song. Technoblade stared at the jukebox, his eyes doing that half-dazed thing where he seemed unfocused and far away. He grinned, looking around for something to throw at him, because why not. 

There was just his box of old items and his sheets. The candle on the bedside table, the dust bunnies under the bed frame, the dirt packed into the grooves of the stones. He rummaged through the box, pulled out the letter meant for Ranboo and tore at the edge of it. Balling up the small strip between his fingers, he held it at the center of his flattened palm, closed one eye, lined up the shot and-- 

It flicked right in-between Technoblade's eyes and the pig jerked back. 

"What--" 

He laughed, curling over himself, holding his sides.

"Wow, very funny. The maturity level of your humor is astronomical." Technoblade picked up the bit of paper and tossed it back. 

He fumbled for it, tried to snatch it out of the air, but ended up batting it off to the side where it disappeared in the groove between his bed and the wall. 

"Nice catch, genius." Technoblade laughed. 

"Shut up." 

"Hey, uh--" Technoblade pointed and he realized he still had the letter in his lap, partially unfolded. 

He quickly packed it back into a small square and tucked it between his palms. 

"It was out when you kind of--" Technoblade made a vague gesture that he assumed was supposed to mimic him knocking out. 

"Did you read it?" He asked, throat tight, fingers clenched. 

"Naw, I mean, it was still folded up and I'm not trying to like invade your privacy or whatever. But uh… I assume you brought it over from exile." 

He let out his held breath. "It's just-- I don't know. It's just a fucking letter." 

"Who's it for?" 

"Ranboo. We had this little-- Like when I first started my exile we stayed in contact through them, but I-- I never got to deliver this one 'cause I'm a fucking idiot." 

"Did you need to have it dropped off still? His house is near Phil's, next time we're in L'Manberg we can just--" 

"It's more of like, uh, a big man to big man delivery." 

Technoblade's brow scrunched. "Like?"

"Like if he reads it I should be there too." 

"Oh, well, uh--" Technoblade rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean, if you wanted I could contact him, ask him to come here. If you still wanted to deliver it to him and all." 

"You don't have to fucking make it sound like you're arranging a play date, jesus."

"You are both quite literally kids, so…" 

"I'm not a kid!" 

"That was definitely believable." Technoblade glanced off to the side. "Either way, did you want to hand it to him in person or not?" 

"I--" 

He wasn't sure. The incident on the docks pulled forward, like it was tugged on strings and he had the misfortune to pluck at it. Ranboo and Tubbo were both around Dream semi-frequently, they both talked to him, probably dicked around L'Manberg from time to time when the guy visited. And neither of them even knew. They didn't know about any of it. They didn't know that-- _Dream's hand lands on Tubbo's shoulder and all he sees is red_ \-- They didn't know that he could hurt them. That he probably _wanted_ to hurt them. 

He had to at least tell Ranboo. Somehow. He had nearly told him everything the first time, anyway. How hard could it be to follow through? 

Apparently, really fucking hard, as he stared at Technoblade and didn't answer for a minute too long as he flipped over the pros and cons of Ranboo knowing. For one thing, it would be easier than telling Technoblade. He didn't have to live with Ranboo. The half-ender would go back to L'Manberg and he wouldn't have eyes constantly driving into the back of his neck, reminding him in the most unsubtle way possible that he was fucked up. 

Maybe Ranboo was the safest bet. 

"Yeah. I think-- I think it'd be cool to see him again at least." He fidgeted with the little parchment square. 

Even if he didn't tell Ranboo, it would be nice to see him again. Ask how Tubbo was doing, the rest of L'Manberg. 

"A playdate it is then." 

"Fuck off, pig." 

"Oh, changing it up with the insults? Maybe you can learn."

He winced, tried to cover it up, but that last half was a bit too close for comfort to something someone else had said. And he had made it awkward, could tell he had by the way Technoblade frowned at his lack of a response and the way _Pigstep_ bumped and skipped at the end of its track. The replay button on the top didn't seem very appetizing now and instead he ejected the vinyl and placed it in his box of things beside the letter. 

"Uh…" He paused, fidgeting with a small tear in his jeans. "Thanks…" 

"For what?" 

Talking to him, hanging out with him, for never asking for anymore than that. "The disc." 

"If I find another I'll be sure to hand it over. Don't have much use for them otherwise." 

"Stiff-eared, no taste, wankoff, bi--" 

"Alright--" Technoblade patted his knees and got to his feet. "That's my cue to go to bed." 

"Night, dickhead." He grinned.

Technoblade leveled him with an amused glare. "Goodnight, Tommy." 

He flicked Technoblade off as he retreated back up the ladder. Hunched forward the moment he disappeared back upstairs, scrubbed at his face and carded his fingers through his hair with a frustrated little growl. The box reclaimed it's home beneath the bed as he shoved it under and he snuffed the candle. Darkness claimed the basement, the only soft filter of light offered by the thin, horizontal window tucked up snug where floorboards met stone. Sheets drawn up to his ears, he curled up on his side, back facing the wall, safe against the unmoving masonry. 

Maybe he should have told him. He rubbed at his eye, kneaded at it til the burst of color behind them made him blink. Maybe he should have just said it. His hand drifted to a snag in the sheets, the little thread sticking up in front of his nose. He poked at it, flattened it with the pad of his finger and then let it pop back up. He should have told him. The dim orange glow winked out from the thin window, signaling that Technoblade had begun to snuff out all the candles in the cabin above. Distant creaks and shifts of footsteps tracked his path, until it fell silent, only the occasional shudder of wind tearing across the boughs of the home breaking the stillness. He turned over onto his back, hands folded over his stomach, finger tapping away at the back of his hand. 

Someday, he would tell him...

**Author's Note:**

> Check series collection for next parts


End file.
